Gone. Vanished.

When I see chain link fence going up around an older home, my heart sinks. Another piece of history will vanish in a single afternoon. Crushed. Smashed. Loaded into a dump truck to some far off growing pike of debris.

Social and personal history fascinate me. Much of that history is gained through observation of the most intimate place in which it happened—a home. Maybe what drives me to capture images of homes before the heavy machinery makes the first gash.

This particular house was nearing 100 years old. I’m sure by today’s standards of living it was woefully inadequate. Even a house build in 1984 lacks the electrical capacity for today’s plugged in lifestyle. Having coordinated the demolition of 90 year old house myself, I know what goes into making the decision. Few have the money to invest in the extensive renovation needed to repair decades of neglect and abuse. When someone does such a rehab I’ve often noticed that the “gut jobs” on ends up as a vintage shell with a modern yet charmless interior.

I‘ll continue to capture images of these homes. Every so often, I’m fortunate enough to get inside and document The interior as well. Once I noticed a woman standing outside a house slated for demolition. Something told me she had a connection to the place. As it turns out she was a great niece of the woman who lives there her entire life. And so with my images I was able to capture a bit personal history.

Still, I hate to see the past disappear as if it never existed. What’s gone is gone forever.